


what it isn't

by TC (thecollective)



Series: Bedtime Stories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Feels, Gen or Pre-Slash, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Tea, after The Hug, tea and feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9282929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/pseuds/TC
Summary: It is what it is. That’s what he’d told John. He’d meant it as comfort, but he finds that he regrets what it isn’t.Inspired by jacksqueen16's "it is what it is"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [it is what it is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9271193) by [jacksqueen16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksqueen16/pseuds/jacksqueen16). 



> Not beta'd. Not brit-picked. All mistakes are my own.

_It is what it is_. The words, his own--and John's-- linger in his mind, circling through it, orbiting around his present thoughts like a persistent moon.

It is what it is. That’s what he’d told John. He’d meant it as comfort, but he finds that he regrets what it isn’t. 

The strings on his violin quiver, resist him. It’s been too long since he played last, and withdrawals do nothing to steady a violinist’s fingers. 

It is, what it is. It is what? It is. It, is what it is. 

He regrets what it isn’t.

Sherlock hears the creak on the stairs. He knows it is John; Mrs. Hudson knows to avoid that particular spot, though he tells her that creaky stairs are not as bothersome as she thinks.

He didn’t expect John to return, not so soon. No matter what Sherlock has told John about his predictability, the man as always surprised (he has since the day they met). 

He goes to the cupboard and pulls out a tin of chamomile. He leaves it on the counter. He knows John is much braver with a cup of tea in his hand than a gun (the same is true of Sherlock). He returns to the violin, plucks at the strings, sets it back down. Putting away the violin feels a bit like stripping down. Being defenseless.

He sits in his chair. John enters the flat three seconds later, not looking at Sherlock. John goes to fix his cup of tea. No greeting. Sherlock isn’t expecting one. He doesn't make tea for the detective. John’s just finished pouring when he grips the counter, knuckles white, and says, “I can’t go back.” His voice breaks. “Not to where she slept.”

She. Mary.

John’s house-- _ Mary’s house-- _ must feel haunted, if one were to believe in ghosts, which Sherlock doesn’t, of course. He supposes that, to John, it must be like what Sherlock feels living in 221B alone. He can’t say that, of course. Even to someone like him it sounds insensitive. 

Instead, Sherlock says, “Mrs. Hudson tidies your bedroom, still.”

John laughs. “Good old Mrs. Hudson. Never gave up on us, did she?”

Sherlock hears the scotch in John’s voice. “Rosie?” Sherlock asks. 

“Molly,” John replies.

“Ah.”

John hovers somewhere between the kitchen and his chair, as if he’s uncertain of his place in 221B. Eventually he settles in his chair, and something settles in Sherlock. Sherlock closes his eyes, John’s quiet sips of tea punctuating the silence. It’s repetitive (and soothing) and soon Sherlock slips into quasi-unconsciousness. He doesn’t dream. Months of sleep deprivation and drug use have made him too tired for that. (Also, John is near. John is safe.)

He doesn’t think about what it, what this, isn’t. 

Sherlock starts at John’s warm hand gently wrapping around his bicep. “You should sleep,” John says, like Sherlock is the one that needs taking care of (they both do), like he’s the one that’s broken (they both are). John leads them to his old bedroom (Sherlock’s is housing a mould experiment). Sherlock slips off his slippers, his dressing gown, and buries his face in a pillow. 

He feels the bed dip beside him, the blankets pulled as John gets comfortable. “John?”

“Go to sleep, Sherlock. You haven’t had a proper sleep in weeks.” 

“John--”

“Sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

So, this is what it is. As always, John surprises him. 

John’s arm wraps around his waist, his palm resting over Sherlock’s heart. Sherlock holds onto John’s wrist, and it’s the comforting pulse of John’s heartbeat that finally lulls him to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & comments are love.


End file.
